


So Close; Too Close

by NaughtyPastryChef



Series: Orgasms For Everyone! spn Kinktober 2017 [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Bottom Dean, M/M, Memories, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Scars, Top Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 09:38:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12454611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef
Summary: kinktober day 22 prompt: Scars. Dean is picking up his jacket when the bullet he'd dug out of Sam's side flies out and drops to the floor.





	So Close; Too Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsGer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsGer/gifts).



> MsGer left me a beautiful request for a Dean POV when he finds the bullet he'd saved from Red Meat brings back the memories of what happened. I hope this suits you darling!

Dean grabs at his jacket from where he’d slung it over the chair in the library and as he does something heavy flies out of the pocket and drops onto the floor. He puzzles over what it could be as he reluctantly crouches down and skims a hand over the threadbare rug to find it. His fingers catch on a small hunk of cold metal and his whole body freezes up as he grabs it on automatic and pulls it closer to his face.

It’s the bullet. The one that he’d dug out of Sammy’s side and told him they’d keep for a momento. The one that he said they’d have a laugh over later. He swallows around the sudden taste of bile in his mouth and sits down heavily, lost in thought.

There have been lots of injuries that scared him. There have been more times than he’d care to think about where he almost lost Sammy, his everything. That one will forever be one of the worst. The desperation. The horror of it all. The banality of losing his brother to a gut wound from a fucking human gun. Nothing supernatural about it aside from the shooter being a werewolf. He’s not sure what stage of grief he’d made it to, bargaining he supposes, as he remembers shoving a handful of pills down his throat to talk to Billie the reaper.

He’d thought they were so close to having everything they’d wanted, then. They were getting older but they had a base of operation. They had a plan and a safety net. They had something to fall back on when Dean’s knees or Sam’s back hurt too much to go out hunting. They had a network of people they trusted to do a job even if they couldn’t. They were close to a break.

And then Sam died. For real died. Stopped breathing and no demon-deal or begging god or anything could make it not be real. He’s overcome with the need to see Sam, to hold Sam to watch him breathe and he’s out of the library and down the hallway to Sam’s room before he can stop himself.

The door is open, because of course it is, but Dean raps his knuckles against the wood and waits to be acknowledged before entering anyway. Sam’s laying in his bed, covers pulled up to his waist and his chest is bare as he reads a book with no information on the cover, so Dean knows it’s job related.

“Dean? What-” Sam barely gets the words out before Dean is on the bed, running his fingertips over warm, living flesh. In his rush to get his hands on the body that he loves more than anything else on the planet, the damaged bullet drops from his fingers onto the bedspread next to Sam’s hip. Sam, of course, picks it up before Dean can take it back.

Sam sucks in a deep breath through his teeth and Dean relishes the way he can watch that chest rise and fall with it and the strong, solid hearbeat in Sam’s neck.

“Is this… from the werewolf thing in Idaho?” Dean snorts and places a strategic palm over Sam’s chest above his beating heart.

“There werewolf thing in Idaho, only you Sam. Yeah. It’s the one I pulled outta your gut.” Reluctantly, he smooths his hand down Sam’s chest until he can feel the puckered, scarred skin on his belly. The permanent reminder.

“Mmmm, when you knew I wasn’t dead, huh?” Sam asks knowingly and Dean raises his eyes from the scar to meet Sam’s. And for once in all of his years he lets everything that’s running through his mind show in the expression on his face. Everything, right down to the need and the want he has for Sam.

Sam sucks in another startled breath and everything goes from utter stillness and silence to violent motion. Dean is pulled down into Sam’s arms, their mouths meeting tentatively then more ferociously. Sam is nipping and biting at Dean’s lower lip as Dean is trying to get his clothes, the bed clothes and Sam’s low-slung sleep pants off all at once. Sam huffs out a laugh against Dean’s lips before pushing him gently away and kicking his bed covers and pants off.

Dean’s throat closes at the image Sam makes, so beautiful and strong yet delicate laying back against his headboard. He rushes to shove all his clothes off, leaving them piled on the floor and then he knees back up onto the bed. His hands itch to get back onto Sam’s skin but they’re just taking a silent moment to look at each other, eyes caressing exposed flesh. His vision seems drawn to the puckered scar low on Sam’s belly, the one that brought him here, tonight, to this and with a barely noticeable tremble, he reaches out to touch it.

“Scars shouldn’t be…” He starts but has no idea, really, where he was going with that statement. Scars shouldn’t be what, he wonders as his fingers trace over and over the skin. He feels Sam trailing random fingertips over his shoulder and chest and is lost in the sensation for a moment. 

“Beautiful. They’re beautiful, even if you think they shouldn’t be. They’re reminders, Dean. Reminders that you, me, we survived something. Something that could kill us; something that tried to kill us. But we remain and so do they.” 

Dean nods; Sam, as usual, got it exactly right. Sam was able to put into words the emotions he is feeling. With a last, lingering touch Dean forces himself to pull his hands away and cup Sam’s face, bringing their mouths together in a kiss that could only be described as thankful. He straddles Sam as they kiss and Sam breaks their lips apart to look at him in question.

Dean is usually the one in control, the top if they ever felt the need to label anything they did with each other. Tonight, Dean needs to feel Sam inside of him. He needs to feel Sam’s life, his strength. He needs a reminder that they’re both still here and not going anywhere. He fumbles the words out, running his mouth in bed is usually a little bit more dirty talk and less emotion, but apparently he strings the words well enough that Sam understands.

They both fumble for the lube and Sam helps Dean prep himself, one finger inside and stretching along with Dean’s two, and then Dean is rising up and pressing the head of Sam’s cock to his pucker. He pushes down and feels the pain and the burn and the stretch but it means he’s alive. He feels the throb and pulse of Sam’s dick inside of him and the sweat gathering on Sam’s sides where his thighs are digging in and can see Sam’s chest heaving with breath and it should be distracting but instead it’s confirmation. Sam is alive, too. Sam is right here, cock buried to the base inside of Dean and sweating and groaning like it’s the best thing ever and it’s as much as Dean can take.

They’re alive.

He bounces up and down for only a handful of moments and they’re both on the precipice. Sam has a hand around his dick and Dean is doing his best to grind and clench and pull the orgasm out of Sam. He wants it deep and dirty and Sam gives it to him.

Later when they’re laying in Sam’s bed, covered in spunk and sweat and saliva, Dean’s fingers find the scar again. He traces over and over it, feeling the difference in the flesh between that and the soft, unblemished skin on either side and he has to agree again.

“Beautiful.”


End file.
